


In Which a Delusion Is Lived Through

by Shinaka



Category: Glee
Genre: Dreams, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinaka/pseuds/Shinaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another world, they might have been together. Based on events up to "Never Been Kissed". Originally posted on LiveJournal on Nov. 16, 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which a Delusion Is Lived Through

In another world, something completely different might had happened.  
  
When he was not hating everything he was despite all his efforts - a line of doe-eyed Cheerios in short, short skirts to pick from, a father with a bat close by and an ugly weight in his threats, and a mother who sat listlessly on the couch and only perked up when he was remotely close to the athlete ideal she imagined and thought she had married - he thought about what-ifs, possibilities, maybe even  _chances_.  
  
Like if they had just been in New York, New York instead of Lima, Ohio. He knew little about the place except for the words of Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly streaming into his room at night after dinner, condemnation slipping off their tongues for the festering liberal hotpot of America. But if it was so disgusting and so depraved - why, maybe his life wouldn't be this simmering mess of hormones and whythehellwasIbornlikethisohGodwhy there. Maybe there he could be both jock and gay, loved instead of feared, hang out with the likes of Finn and Puck instead of Azimio, and hell - maybe even have  _Kurt_  prancing by his side chatting him up about Lady Gaga and fashion designers whose names he wouldn't be able to remember because they were either too long or there was a new one every week.  
  
Maybe he would laugh - because in this world he and Kurt were okay like that and  _more_  - and then whisper into Kurt's ear, "Eight tonight, okay?" and his lips would turn up in a coy smile before he said, "Fine, meathead. But you're paying for dinner at Momofuku and that's final." He would pretend to get pissed at that - "Overpriced shit, are you kidding me?" - but it wasn't like he wouldn't have cash to spare because in this world he would never even had  _dreamed_  about giving people a Slushie facial.  
  
He would go over to Kurt's house fifteen minutes early - not just for the chance to see Kurt early (though that was definitely up there) but because Burt Hummel would always perk up at seeing his son's  _favorite_ , and usher him into the living room and talk football for a bit ("God, the Jets suck this year"), while Kurt's pretty little voice rang from his room as he finished getting changed. Of course, at the end of the football discussion ("I should have  _never_  bet on the Patriots!"), Kurt would come out all dazzling and shimmering in whatever over-the-top outfit he decided to wow him for the night ("I'm always fabulous," and then a swish to make for a lurch in his heart and an awkward moment somewhere further down that he hoped Burt wouldn't notice), and he would feel decidedly plain in his button-down shirt and jeans.  
  
However Kurt struts and compels people to feel lower than him due to sheer personality and an incomparable wardrobe though, he would always say something like, "While I wouldn't mind a little more pizazz in your taste in clothing - and you should get a better razor, you still have some stubble here and there - you look wonderful anyway,  _Dave_."  
  
Dave. He quite liked how it sounded coming from his lips.  
  
Flash-forward. They would come out of the restaurant, Kurt gushing over the lovely presentation of the platters and the wonderful service, him grumbling over the bigger-than-expected punch to his wallet. After some wandering through the still busy streets, it would be almost midnight. He would stop Kurt on the street - who would, at this point, cling to Dave like a lifeline, giggling to himself, a little tipsy from the fine wine - and he would muster up the courage to ask the one question he had been waiting to ask Kurt for a few months: "You wanna come over to my place, Kurt?"  
  
And Kurt would answer, after a pause in which his smile - which would always be there in this world, large and soothing, even when it came before a joke about Dave's lack of taste in TV - grew even wider than he could have ever imagined. " _Yes_."  
  
He would fight the urge to simply carry Kurt and run with him to his apartment. He wouldn't push Kurt like that. He would be patient and walk with him there, even though inside he would be screaming for joy and Kurt would tilt his eyes at him and hold on more tightly to him in ways that made him want to break every public decency law and then some.  
  
Another flash-forward.  
  
They would fall into his apartment, shirts already off, parents conveniently off on a trip to Bermuda. Before the door would even close completely shut, Kurt would already have Dave's pants off while Dave would be working on unzipping Kurt's stubbornly tight skinny jeans ("Don't rip them or I'll kill -  _Ohhhh_ "). The clothes would continue dropping in a trail that would lead to his room and by the time they hit the bed, Kurt's underwear would be the last thing to come off and join the rest of the pile.  
  
It wouldn't be the first time they sucked each other off or rubbed their cocks against one another's. But today would be the first time they had sex, and so Dave had researched and planned well for this day. He would reach into his drawer for lube and condoms while jerking Kurt off with one hand, while Kurt kissed and bit on his lips, neck, and nipples. He would - reluctantly - shove Kurt off so he could put on a condom, before rushing to stroke his balls and cock with a vengeance that almost made him flip Kurt over and fuck him right then and there. But he would restrain himself at the last second and he would pick up the lube and start spreading his boyfriend's ass wide so he could pour the stuff onto his fingers and put one slowly inside, so Kurt would cry with pleasure first and not pain.  
  
It would work because Kurt would make such sounds - breathy moans, mews, bitten-off versions of his name ("Da-!") - that he would more than once take out his finger and rub the head of his cock against his entrance, the more to tease him and to have him make even more sounds for his own cock to throb to.   
  
"C-come on...  _You're taking too long_..."  
  
"S'all going according to plan," He would kneel and whisper into Kurt's ear, flicking an all-too-hot cock against his ass again. He would listen to Kurt whine and beg and whimper as his finger dug deep and touched a part of his lover that would send him into convulsions of utter bliss and  _pleading_  into Dave's lips.  
  
Most of all, he would glow in awe at his power over Kurt Hummel, a power that wouldn't come from shoving him into lockers or walls, or dumping him into the dumpster, or tossing a Slushie at that face he knew Kurt spent at least an hour grooming into perfection at home; it was a power that would come from an earnest confession one afternoon in the hallway filled to the brim with students going to and from class and Kurt staring straight into his eyes and saying, "Now why didn't you say that sooner, Dave, did you know how  _long_  you made me wait?" but with a smile that almost hurt in its sheer brightness.  
  
Kurt would be at his limit now, the sheets covered with his dripping precum. He would pull out his finger for the last time and line his cock with his entrance. Of course he would let Kurt beg a little more - God knew Kurt needed  _some_  sort of punishment for all the sass he always aimed at Dave - and then holding the base of his cock with one hand and Kurt's ass with the other, he would finally thrust in -  
  
A ringing sound echoed throughout the room.  
  
He opened his eyes from beneath the blankets. The sun drifting in the windows showed the time on his alarm clock to be 7:45 AM.   
  
Of course.  
  
Of course.  
  
He ignored the pool of cum on his blankets as he sat up in bed and stared into the mirror on the other side of his room.  
  
"I am not a faggot."  
  
The other-him in the mirror didn't look convinced enough.  
  
"I am not a motherfucking faggot like Lady Face."  
  
Again.  
  
"I hate all faggots and they all should burn in Hell."  
  
Better. The other-him finally looked a little more at peace.  
  
Now he could finally start the day.


End file.
